


Tourniquet

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Tourniquet [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Aramis Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they need to, they hold one another up. </p><p>Five times, for this KinkMeme prompt: '5 times that Athos and Porthos (d'artagnan) have to muddle through patching Aramis up when the medic is hurt on a mission and they don't really know what they are doing and really wish they'd paid more attention to what to do in the past?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. D'Artagnan and the unwanted anatomy lesson

 

D’Artagnan hums out a long shaky breath and looks worryingly green around the gills. Aramis gives him a concerned look.

 ‘Alright?’

 ‘Um, yeah. Yeah.’ He swallows and shoots a quick glance back down the street.

 ‘D’Artagnan – ‘

 He grimaces and attempts a neutral expression that is less than convincing. ‘It’s fine. It looks fine.’

 Aramis has to grit his teeth quite hard not to growl in frustration because it doesn’t _feel_ fine. An encounter with a particularly vicious street gang on patrol resulted in a brief but intense fight, and though Aramis and d’Artagnan emerged the victors – more or less – being yanked from his horse has left Aramis with a sickly hot ache in his shoulder, and apparently it looks so distorted it’s making d’Artagnan feel sick.

 D’Artagnan squares his jaw and raises both hands. ‘Sorry. I’m ready, tell me again.’

 Aramis tells him, and d’Artagnan reaches at last for the arm that’s dangling heavy and useless at his side. Then he stops.

 ‘Aramis – it’s not that I don’t want to help but don’t you think I’ll make it worse?’

 ‘I have every confidence in you,’ Aramis grates out.

 ‘It’s… the _bones_ are all out of…’ D’Artagnan gives another wretched glance to the back of Aramis’ shoulder.

 ‘It’ll be fine. Just grip, like I told you…’

 D’Artagnan gives him another doubtful look.

 ‘You saw me set Athos’ shoulder two months ago.’

 ‘Yeah, but that was…’

 Aramis breathes out carefully, eyes on the roof line opposite. D’Artagnan takes hold of his wrist with clammy hands.

 ‘Aramis?’

 ‘Mm?’

 ‘I didn’t really watch you setting Athos’ shoulder.’

 ‘Ah.’

 ‘Sorry…’

 Aramis grunts and shuffles a little more upright.

 ‘It’s easy. You’re just going to pull, as hard as you can, until it moves back in.’

 ‘I’ll pull your _arm_ off.’

 ‘We’ll risk it.’

 D’Artagnan gives him a doubtful look, and Aramis returns a smile so strained he can feel it tight in his cheeks; it seems to unsettle d’Artagnan even further.

 ‘Alright, you look awful. Does it really hurt that much? Don’t answer that.’

 Aramis just breathes. D’Artagnan shuffles himself into position and braces his foot against Aramis’ ribs. ‘Just pull?’ he asks again.

 ‘Mm.’ Aramis concentrates on gritting his teeth and keeping his tongue well back out of their way.

 ‘Are you ready?’

 ‘D’Artagnan, _please_ –‘

 ‘Right.’ There’s another three-second pause as d’Artagnan nods grimly to himself, and then he pulls hard on Aramis’ arm, and the pain _wrenches_ hot and sickly from his shoulder right across his ribcage and up to the base of his skull. D’Artagnan falters in alarm at the keening noise he can’t stifle, but remembers his instructions and doesn’t stop. The blank, white-hot moment stretches out, Aramis is certain he will pass out, and then the bones shift around one another and he grunts, harshly, and the pain recedes to a dull ache with sudden, unlooked-for mercy.

 Aramis pants, eyes closed, five harsh breaths before he can gasp, ‘thank you.’

 D’Artagnan scrambles away from him abruptly and Aramis hears the unmistakeable sound of him losing his breakfast in the gutter.

 ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, wiping his mouth on his wrist as he shuffles back to his side.

 ‘It’s – fine. You alright?’

 ‘I should be asking you that,’ d’Artagnan says sheepishly.

 ‘I’m much better.’

 D’Artagnan huffs out a relieved breath. ‘Never make me do that again,’ he says fervently.

 ‘I’m in no great hurry to repeat the experience myself,’ Aramis says, carefully levering himself to his feet. He’ll get Porthos to help him make a sling when they get back, for now, he just tucks his arm inside his jacket to keep it steady. He offers his good hand to d’Artagnan to pull him to his feet; d’Artagnan gives him a sceptical look and hauls himself up using the wall instead. Aramis pats him on the shoulder, partly to reassure him, and partly to irritate him into releasing some tension.

 ‘Fine job, d’Artagnan. Perhaps you have a talent for doctoring. Would you like to be my apprentice?’

 D’Artagnan shakes him off grumpily but does look a little less pale. ‘I’d rather eat my own eyeballs, Aramis, thanks.’

 Aramis would shrug, but it’s not a good idea just now.

 

 


	2. Porthos and the barbarism of needlework

Porthos sets his jaw firmly, gripping Aramis’ shoulder in support with his eyes fixed on the horizon. Ostensibly to check if anyone’s still following them. Actually, because he’s already having to breathe very cautiously to keep the nausea in check. If he looks, he’s going to lose his breakfast all over Aramis, and Aramis complains enough already about keeping contaminants away when somebody gets wounded.

He’s listening carefully, though, as Aramis hisses a breath in, concentrating, and hums it out, a little shaky. He feels the shudder run through his friend’s body, and then hears his soft curse.

‘Pass me that…’ Aramis whispers, and Porthos hands him the cloth without looking. He feels Aramis shift to wipe his hands and then delicately pick up the needle again.

‘Alright?’

‘Fine.’

A few moments’ silence, but Porthos is pretty sure the shaking is getting worse.

‘Shit. I can’t.’

Porthos clenches his fist and turns to look at him. Aramis returns the gaze, pale and apologetic, and brandishes the curved needle at him with bloody fingers. Porthos’ stomach flips over unpleasantly.

‘Sorry, Porthos. My- my hands…’

His fingers are trembling badly, and Porthos takes the needle from him before he can drop it.

‘Can it wait till we get back to the Garrison?’ he asks wretchedly, seeing his answer in his friend’s pallor.

Aramis winces and glances down at himself and starts to say, ‘Of course…’

Porthos shakes his head angrily. ‘Would you let it wait if it was me bleeding?’

Aramis gives him a faint, stupid grin. ‘Well, I’d stitch it if it were you bleeding. If my damned fingers would co-operate…’

‘I can do it.’

‘Porthos, you look sick as a dog.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

He swallows, and makes himself look at the cut on Aramis’ leg. ‘Jesus. You’re going to sit real still and talk me through it, right? Because you know I hate this.’

Aramis hums agreement, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt now he’s relinquished the needle because god forbid they could ever be still.

‘It’s not the blood,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Seen you pick up a man’s arm for him when it was blown clean off, you didn’t blink.’

‘No, it’s not the blood, I’ve been a soldier nearly as many years as you, you think _blood_ bothers me? It’s, I don’t know, the needle. Sewing up people, it’s fucking heathen.’ He squints at the needle dubiously, breathing very carefully through his nose. ‘And I don’t have your delicate girl’s fingers, needlework’s not my thing.’

‘We could just bind it,’ Aramis says quietly.

‘Fuck you, we’re not doing that. Bleeding everywhere.’

Aramis nods obediently and leans back on his hands. ‘Alright then. I’ve already cleaned it. Soak the needle and thread in a bit of that brandy.’

‘You don’t wanna drink the brandy?’ he croaks, glancing up at Aramis.

‘Best not. Makes you bleed faster.’

‘Alcohol? We better be dead careful with Athos, then.’

‘Quite so.’

Gingerly he picks up the needle and pours brandy over it, the alcohol cool on his fingers.

‘You need to tie something around above the wound to keep the bleeding down while you stitch it.’

Porthos carefully lays the needle down and unbuckles his own belt to loop around Aramis’ leg. He winces at the pressure, but doesn’t move.

‘Bit tighter. That’s fine.’

Porthos just nods. Now he’s looking at the needle, he’s not going to open his mouth unless he absolutely has to.

Aramis’ voice stays very steady as he gives instructions, though his face does tighten when Porthos has actually stuck the needle into him he doesn’t for a moment stop talking. Porthos just grunts acknowledgements and tries to let Aramis’ words go straight to his fingers without passing through his brain, doesn’t want to let himself think _I’m pushing a needle into my best mate’s leg_ , because if he thinks it he doesn’t think he can _do_ it any more.

The end result, when it is finally over with, is not what you’d call tidy. Porthos rinses the stitched wound with watered down brandy and wipes his hands off on Aramis’ sash (which is already ruined with blood, so a little more makes no difference). Aramis winces when he loosens the belt around his leg, but he’s still sitting upright and still watching him closely, so he seems alright.

‘S’a bit messy. Might be a scar,’ Porthos mumbles, focusing hard on his hands and willing them not to shake.

‘Scars can be very useful,’ Aramis says thoughtfully, and then waits for him to look up before grinning like an idiot. Porthos still feels a bit wobbly in the stomach, but Aramis' stupid grin is infectious.

' _Useful_ ,' he mutters, mostly to himself. 'There's something wrong with you.'


	3. Athos and the invalid, or, Reasons to avoid children

‘Are you unwell?’ Athos says doubtfully, watching the way Aramis dismounts.

‘I’m fine. Let’s get on with this.’

Athos frowns at him, because he’s moving like his ribs are bruised and he looks exhausted, but if Aramis says he’s fine, well, he ought to know if anyone does.

Moments later as they mount the steps into the chateau, Aramis’ steps falter behind him, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees him with one hand on the wall for balance. Athos sighs sharply through his nose and strides back. ‘It was you who wanted to get on with this,’ he grumbles, but without malice, and pats him on the shoulder. Aramis looks up grey in the face, eyes strained.

‘Hmm?’ he says, squinting at Athos like the light’s hurting his eyes.

Athos scowls at him. ‘Is this really your definition of “fine”? You look dreadful.’

He’s bleary enough that he barely seems to register the words. ‘M’fine,’ he says again, and Athos would sigh in exasperation if it weren’t for Aramis suddenly going still. ‘No. Wait. I’m going to be sick.’

‘What?’

Aramis claps one hand over his mouth and braces the other against the wall; he stands stock-still staring wide-eyed at Athos for a long moment and then his back heaves and he drops to his knees.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

He throws up, seems to finish, then throws up again until all he can heave out is bile. Athos stands stunned for a moment, then awkwardly steps close to pat him on the back.

 ‘Did you eat something? Bad meat?’

Aramis coughs miserably, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Were you drinking last night?’ Athos knows as he says it that it’s a ridiculous question coming from him, but Aramis gives no sign of indignation.

‘No.’ He wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and hauls himself to his feet, swaying. Athos grabs him by the arm to steady him.

‘You’re – warm. I think,’ he says uncertainly, because really this isn’t his area of expertise, but Aramis still looks wretched. ‘Do you have a fever?’

Aramis groans. ‘Possibly. Mme Marchand’s daughter had a fever last week.’

 Athos wrinkles his nose. ‘You’re not seeing the daughter as well?’

 ‘Athos, she’s a child. I was just – in the house.’

 ‘Can you take an infection just from being in the same building?’ Athos says doubtfully. Then he shrugs. ‘It hardly matters. You can’t ride back to Paris like this.’

 ‘I’ll be fine, Athos.’

 ‘Obviously not. Also, you have just redecorated the Duc d’Alençay’s front steps, so your life is most likely forfeit anyway.’

 ‘Ugh. Wonderful. Thank god you’re here.’

 He squints his eyes almost closed and lays one hand on his own stomach as if to prevent something crawling out of it. Athos sighs. ‘Go and wait in the stables. I’ll pick up the dispatches and then we’ll retreat to an inn or something. Perhaps if you sleep you’ll be fit in the morning.’

 Athos leaves him sitting on the bottom step and stalks into the main gates. Alençay’s people keep him waiting far longer than necessary; he suspects they are being deliberately obtuse, and as soon as he can take his leave with anything _approximating_ politeness he makes for the stables. When he passes a servant boy scrubbing at the steps and glaring suspiciously at him he tips his hat, inscrutable, and walks on.

 He finds the horses where he left them, but Aramis is not immediately visible. It’s only when he rounds the end of the stall that he can see him, because he’s wilted to his hands and knees by the wall and looks utterly pathetic; a man carrying three loaded pistols has rarely looked as _harmless_ as Aramis does just now.

 ‘Were you sick again?’ he asks. He aims to sound sympathetic, but his voice comes out dry as ever.

 ‘No,’ Aramis croaks. ‘Not… just nauseous.’

 Athos takes his arm and hauls him upright. ‘I’ve got the dispatches. Are you ready to go?’

 Aramis closes his eyes and nods, grimacing. Athos pats him on the arm and watches doubtfully as he shuffles to his horse and gracelessly wobbles his way into the saddle. Still on the ground, Athos frowns up at him. ‘Do I need to worry about you falling off?’

 Aramis glares at him. ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ he mumbles. His knuckles are white, tangled in the reins.

 He can ride, it turns out, up to a point. Athos isn’t going to risk anything more than a walk, though: Aramis is swaying and hunched in the saddle, and – sure sign that he feels appallingly ill – he doesn’t even _try_ to make conversation. It takes two hours to come within sight of an inn, and by that time Aramis is hunched so far over he’s all but got his face pressed into the horse’s neck.

 They get a room, and Athos hovers behind Aramis on the stairs because his legs are shaking like a new colt’s. Inside, his knees buckle a moment too soon and he misses the bed and crashes to one knee with a horrible hoarse moan, covering both his eyes with one hand. Athos grips his shoulder to steer him into the bed and feels the first actual stab of alarm: he’s _definitely_ too warm now.

 ‘Aramis?’

 No reply but a twitch of the hand over his eyes. Athos is uncomfortable with how _little_ he knows in this situation, and the thing is, Aramis probably _does_ know how ill he really is, but if he knows it’s serious Athos isn’t certain he’ll be willing to say so.

 ‘You’re really warm.’

 Aramis folds onto the bed without taking his hand away from his eyes, sitting hunched up and gripping the edge of the mattress with his free hand. He grunts something that’s presumably meant to be acknowledgement.

 Athos hisses in exasperation and tries again. ‘ _Aramis_.’

 ‘M’fine. Headache.’

 ‘No, you’re _really_ warm. Aramis… I need you to tell me what to do.’

 ‘S’just… it’s nothing, Athos. Let me…’

 What does Aramis usually do for these sorts of things? Athos runs through memories: Porthos with an infection after letting a wound fester, Athos himself laid low with a fever from too many nights drunk and sleeping in puddles. Unfortunately, both memories are hazy. ‘Have you got any herbs for a headache? Laudanum?’

 ‘Hmm? No.’ Aramis waves him away with his spare hand, but he should know better than to think he can get rid of Athos so easily. He still hasn’t taken his hand off his eyes. Athos retreats as far as the window and pulls the shutters almost fully closed, letting just a sliver of light in to the room. He might be imagining it, but Aramis seems to relax, just marginally.

 ‘Would a drink help?’ Athos suggests practically.

 Aramis shudders, groaning.

 ‘I meant _water_.’

‘Mm. Maybe.’ He lets his hand droop slowly down his face until it falls limply into his lap and just sits there looking miserable.

 ‘Lie down. Christ’s sake. I’ll get you something.’ Despite his disgruntled tone, Athos’ hands are gentle as he pushes Aramis down to lie on his side, and he’s careful to let the door close without a sound.

-/-

Later, resting _reasonably_ comfortably with a cold cloth on his brow, Aramis opens one eye to look at him.

‘M’sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this.’

 Athos watches him seriously. ‘How many times, approximately, have you dealt with me?’

 Aramis returns the look steadily, too tired to reply. Eventually: ‘S’different.’

 ‘Indeed. I poison myself with wine; you pick up ailments playing with your mistress’ children. We all have our vices.’

 He blinks. ‘Athos…’

 ‘Go to sleep, Aramis.’

 ‘I’ll be fine, in th’morning.’

 ‘I’m sure. Go to sleep.’

 Aramis watches his eyes for a few minutes longer, wary and serious like the child that really he never grew out of being, and then his eyelids droop. When Athos is sure he’s asleep, he allows himself a thin smile.


	4. Captain Treville and the memory of something worse

The battle has left a mess of dust, rubble, and blood, and the light is fading as Treville wearily paces the field. Victory has been hard-won, and he’s looking for musketeer colours amongst the wounded still lying untended where their positions were overrun, or amongst the dead.

Half-hidden by what remains of a wall, Aramis is sprawled on his back with one hand clutching his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers.

‘There you are,’ Treville says, crouching beside him. ‘Athos and Porthos have been looking for you for hours.’

He opens his eyes a crack, and does manage to look a bit apologetic.

‘Tried to get back. Got dizzy.’

‘Musket ball?’

‘Mm.’

Treville gently moves his hand away so he can get a look, and suddenly feels lightheaded himself. There’s no wound at the back, so unless Aramis has already dug it out with his fingers the ball is still in there, and it will have to come out as soon as possible. He draws his dagger, then has to sit back for a moment to blink his vision back to normal. He’s irritated with himself for this weakness – feeling squeamish about a wound, in front of _Aramis_ of all people - when Treville has been a soldier for as long as he has.

Aramid shifts uncomfortably. ‘Ahh… Captain, it needs…’

‘I know, damn you. I was on campaigns when you were still clinging to your mother’s skirts, Aramis.’

He grunts hoarsely. ‘Yes, sir.’

Treville fumbles with the knife and drops it with a vicious curse. Aramis rolls his head to look, anxious.

‘Are you alright, Captain?’ he mumbles.

‘I’m fine,’ Treville replies shortly, and throws a glance over his shoulder to see who else is nearby. There’s a boy surreptitiously picking a corpse’s pockets not far from him, and strictly speaking Treville should stop him, but his priorities are strung out and wretched with exhaustion after today. ‘You, boy!’ he bellows, and the skinny lad glances up and goes taut like a rabbit about to flee. Treville hurriedly frisks himself for a coin and holds it up. ‘Here. Run to the tents and find the musketeers called Athos and Porthos. Tell them Aramis is alive and we will both be back shortly.’

The child edges towards them, taking the coin and scuttling back a pace or two.

‘You’ve got that?’ he barks.

‘Musketeer Athos; Aramis is alive,’ the boy parrots.

‘That’ll do,’ Treville sighs, and turns back to his wounded man.

‘They’re alright?’ Aramis breathes, eyes coming open to fix him with a fervent stare.

‘Better than you. Everyone’s a little battered.’

Aramis huffs softly, but he seems satisfied with that answer. He blinks twice at the sky and then whispers ‘We’ve seen worse, Captain.’

Treville doesn’t know whether he means the musketeer regiment or just himself and his friends, but something in the sincere weight of the words makes him think of another time he found Aramis alone and unable to move, half-dead on the snow-packed earth in Savoy. _You and I have seen worse_ , he thinks, because God willing, nothing will ever be worse than that.

Exhaustion is making him maudlin. He hisses in a breath, giving himself a shake.

‘Are you ready to have that ball out?’

Aramis grins crookedly. ‘I’d be much obliged.’

Treville only has water with which to clean the point of his dagger. They’ll have to flush the wound with alcohol later to guard against infection. Aramis watches him with quiet, drowsy eyes; he doesn’t _look_ apprehensive, but Treville knows exactly what it feels like to have a musket ball dug out in the field and if Aramis _isn’t_ nervous, he’s a fool.

When the knife is ready, Aramis shifts himself so his neck is tilted away from the bad shoulder and grips a tree root to keep the arm immobilised. Then he ducks his head enough to take the collar of his jacket between his teeth, looks at Treville sideways and nods minutely. A faint tremor runs through him, despite his still steady gaze.

Of course Aramis knows to be nervous, Treville thinks. Last time a bullet needed to be dug out of a musketeer on the field, it was Aramis doing the digging.

Treville has steady hands. He presses the point of the main gauche into the wound very slowly, to keep the pressure as delicate as he can when it clunks against the ball. The corded muscles in Aramis’ bared upper arm tremble and twitch. ‘Alright lad,’ he murmurs. ‘Almost there.’

He feels for the edge of the ball, slides the knife alongside and – the worst part, Aramis is breathing in sharp exhaled sobs now – tilts it to get the point of the blade under the musket ball and teases it slowly up. When he can see it, he reaches with his free hand and catches it by the tips of his fingernails. A trickle of blood slips out once it’s loose, and Treville clamps a scrap of cloth over it hard by way of temporary bandage.

Aramis spits out his collar and manages on the third attempt to shape actual words. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

Treville opens his hand to show him the musket ball. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

Aramis shakes his head. ‘No; they lose their shape once they’ve been fired.’

And God forbid anything jeopardize the precision of Aramis’ aim.

‘I meant for… sentimental reasons.’

Aramis just looks at him, faintly appalled.

‘Some soldiers like to,’ Treville shrugs, though the idea has never had much appeal to him either.

He looks up at the sound of stumbling footsteps approaching across the field, one hand dropping to rest on Aramis’ chest.

‘Captain!’

He turns toward the familiar voice in time to see Porthos and Athos stagger over the escarpment. Porthos is sporting what will be a fairly spectacular black eye. Athos probably shouldn’t have come, limping as badly as he is, but Treville is not surprised to see him nonetheless.

‘We received your message,’ Athos says, drawing close as Porthos drops to his knees on Aramis’ other side.

‘Alright, brother?’ he murmurs, and gets a weary smile in return.

Treville would reprimand them for leaving the camp, particularly since neither of them looks fit for it, but he knows it would be a waste of breath, and anyway, he was going to struggle getting Aramis down there on his own. The four of them will make an ungainly sight getting back to camp, between Athos’ leg and Aramis woozy with pain and blood loss.

Victory has been hard won. But they’ve seen far worse than today.


	5. Constance Bonacieux and the winter river

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally - Constance's turn. This is a ridiculous fanfic cliché, but what can you do...?

Almost home from delivering the queen’s missives, Constance smiles at the countryside gleaming like a jewel in the snow. D’Artagnan is assigned to the hunt with Porthos, so Aramis is riding beside her, and quiet for once, as if he too is taking the chance to enjoy the scenery.

She drinks in the icicles lacing the trees, the smooth blanket that lies silent over the fields, the clear sharp blade of the frozen river –

 And freezes herself, because there is a child out in the middle of the river, shuffling fearlessly over the ice.

 ‘Aramis,’ she says softly, and he looks, and swears. Both of them dig their heels into the horses.

‘This is when we wish d’Artagnan had been available,’ Aramis calls to her over the sound of hooves.

 ‘Why?’

 ‘He’s lighter than I am. An advantage, on the ice.’

 They rein in on the bank and Constance blinks at him. ‘ _I’m_ lighter than you.’

 ‘You’re not going,’ he says flatly. ‘If you went in the water in all those skirts you’d go straight to the bottom.’

 ‘And you won’t, in all that leather?’ Constance objects, but he’s running to the bank, calling as he goes.

 ‘Mademoiselle, can you hear me? Please come off the ice.’

 The ice squeaks, and the girl, no more than twelve years old and poorly dressed for the weather, shrieks in response, dropping to her hands and knees.

 ‘Can you come towards me?’ Aramis calls from the bank.

 ‘It’s alright, please, just come off the ice,’ Constance adds, stepping up next to him.

 The girl stares blankly, then shakily makes to get to her feet. ‘No –no, don’t stand up, crawl towards me,’ Aramis shouts, and she drops heavily to her knees again and the ice creaks. Aramis swears under his breath, and shucks off his jacket.

 Constance takes the jacket when he passes it to her, and it occurs to her a second later to object. He gets to his own hands and knees and edges out slowly, keeping up a soft stream of encouragement, but the girl has all but shut down, too frightened to move.

 Almost to the middle, Aramis stretches out a hand. ‘Take my hand, Mademoiselle. We’ll go back together, _oui_? You see my friend Constance there, on the bank? We’re going straight towards her, alright?’

 The girl looks at her and Constance smiles in what she hopes is an encouraging way. But she doesn’t move.

 Aramis tries for another minute or so, cajoling and coaxing and moving slowly towards her, but she curls up tight and weeps and won’t look at him. Constance sees the moment that he decides, sees it clear as day in the set of his shoulders, and fear grips her.

 ‘Don’t even _think_ about it Aramis,’ she yells.

 ‘Can’t think of a better option,’ he calls back cheerily.

 ‘Aramis!’

 He reaches for the girl, and she’s pliant and unresponsive as he folds her into his arms. He can’t crawl and hold her, so he very slowly gets to his feet, watching the ice distrustfully.

 He takes two steps and the ice creaks and he freezes, staring at Constance and waiting motionless for it to settle. But then there’s nothing he can do but keep walking; an irrational part of Constance wishes he would just sprint and be _off_ the ice as soon as possible.

 He is still six paces away from the bank when it goes, and after all that it still takes her by surprise. It cracks behind him and the ice tilts, he crashes to his knees gripping the girl desperately but it’s too far off balance and the malicious ice just tips him in with a gasp of surprise.

 Constance jolts forward, but Aramis breaks surface with a cacophony of splashing and barks at her, ‘Stay!’

 He thrashes out one arm, lays it flat on the ice where it’s still intact, but hasn’t enough purchase to heave himself or the girl out, and when he tries he just slips back and momentarily goes under again.

 Constance looks frantically around herself for help. The tree behind her has lost a branch from the weight of the snow; she digs it out and drags it over, feeding it carefully out onto the ice. She keeps calling Aramis’ name as she does so; he’s still struggling but his movements are getting clumsy with the cold.

 ‘Here! Take this – ‘

 One pale hand snatches at the snowy branch and convulses once before it can grip. Constance hangs on for dear life as he uses the branch to haul the girl’s upper body out onto the ice. He tries to shove at her to get her properly out of the water but it isn’t working and Constance screams at him to get himself out before either her grip or his fails. With another huge effort he wriggles his own torso up and out of the water, rolling to get away from the split in the ice. The girl hasn’t moved - fainted or knocked out in the fall - and Aramis has to turn back to drag her fully out of the water and towards Constance across the ice.

 ‘… Aramis?’

 He’s nearly to her, but he’s dropped to his knees and one forearm and his head is hanging, other arm wrapped around the girl under her armpits.

 ‘ _Aramis_!’

 ‘Constance…’ he blurts her name out on a single harsh breath, eyes flicking up. ‘Coming.’

 She’s so focused on him, edging the last few feet until she can finally help to haul both of them onto the snowy earth, that she doesn’t hear the other man approaching until he’s right on them.

 ‘My daughter! What have you done to her!’

 Aramis rolls onto his back and blinks up at the newcomer, who snatches the girl’s limp body up and staggers a few steps back.

 ‘She was out on the ice, Monsieur,’ says Constance indignantly. ‘She was right in the middle of the river, she would have…’

 ‘Y’have to warm her up,’ Aramis mumbles, still lying on the ground at Constance’s feet.

 The incensed man turns to walk away, girl cradled in his arms, and Constance staggers a step after him. ‘Wait! Do you live nearby? We need help!’

 The man shoots her a disgusted look over his shoulder and doesn’t stop. ‘We saved your daughter, Monsieur!’ she yells at his back. ‘We need your _help_!’

 Nothing. She crouches and tugs at Aramis’ arms. ‘Get up, come on you have to get up or you’ll freeze. Of all the ungrateful _bloody_ people.’ He blinks at her, wide eyes blinking stupid with shock. ‘Here look. At least your coat’s dry. _God_.’ She drapes it over his shoulders, but with everything else wet, she just doesn’t think it’ll be enough. His icy fingers try to grip at her wrist, fumble and fail. ‘We need help, Aramis. What are we going to do? Look at me! What are we going to do?’ She shakes him by the shoulders. ‘ _Aramis!_ ’

 ‘Uhhh. Constance. Mm – M’here.’

 She catches one of his hands and rubs his fingers vigorously to try to warm them.

 ‘The girl,’ he blurts suddenly, urgently. ‘That girl.’

 ‘She’s gone,’ Constance snaps, more out of lingering anger at the girl’s ungrateful father than anything else, but Aramis flinches. ‘She’s with her family, Aramis,’ she amends. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’

 ‘Gotta get dried off. Warm up,’ he mutters, and she thinks, well, I could probably have guessed _that_ much on my own.

 ‘We have to get out of the snow first,’ she says wretchedly. ‘I’m going to fetch the horses. Don’t – go anywhere.’

 Not that he looks like he can. Constance runs, as best she can with her skirts trailing in the snow, and gathers up the horses by the reins; luckily, they haven’t wandered far. When she gets back Aramis is sitting all loose-limbed in the snow, staring into space.

 ‘Why are you not shivering?’ she demands, incredulous and worried. ‘ _I’m_ freezing, and I wasn’t…’

 He doesn’t so much as blink until she waves her hands in front of his face, and then he just frowns in apparent confusion. ‘Constance… why’re you…?’

 ‘We’ve got to go,’ she says firmly, and grips him by both arms. ‘You have to help me, Aramis, I can’t lift you.’

 He’s breathing quite slowly but very shallow like the air is just skating across the top of his throat, and he’s starting to look blue around the lips. He does stumble upright when she tugs at him, though, and she basically shoves him towards the horse. Getting him into the saddle takes so long and so many fumbled attempts that she wants to weep with frustration, and he’s getting _worse_ , but somehow on the eighth or ninth try they get him up there, between them, and he wilts forward over the horse’s neck. She holds one of his legs, but if he really starts to fall she doesn’t know how she’ll stop him. She climbs up onto her own horse, still holding both sets of reins, and edges her mount as close to him as possible, leaning precariously over to drape a cloak over his back.

 ‘Are you with me?’

He just gazes blearily back; doesn’t even really look like he recognises her right now. Constance’s heart is frantic in her chest, but her face is grim with purpose. She starts them moving. Beside her, Aramis is limp as a corpse under the draped coat and cloak, his face pressed into the horse’s mane. She hopes he might take some warmth from the animal’s body, if nothing else. He’s not responding to anything she says any more, but she sees no reason to stop talking to him. She’s not sure it’s helping her to stay calm, but she _can’t_ seem to stop.

 ‘We’re not so far away. Not so far. Once you’re out of those wet things and by a fire, you’ll be warmed up in no time at all. You just – just need to get some warmth in you. I can make you a tea, my mother used to make it when I was sick as a girl. I think I remember the recipe. If you have the right things for it at the Garrison. Sometimes I think you have nothing there but wine, it’s the only thing any of you seem to live on most of the time.’

 She doesn’t dare go too fast, because if Aramis falls, she won’t get him up again like this.

 ‘I can’t believe you did that. Can’t _believe_ … It’s so typical, no _thought_ at all, it’s amazing to me that you’ve lived this long, heavens’ _sake_ …’ Her voice falters, and she screws her face up angrily to squeeze the tears out and then brush them away.

 She follows the road alongside the river into the outskirts of Paris. Dusk is gathering and the way is quiet; it’s going to be another bitterly cold night.

 ‘Maybe the others will come out and find us,’ she tells Aramis’ slumped form, voice stupid with hope. ‘We’re very late. The queen will not be impressed; I will be so late back. Well – since it’s _your_ fault, perhaps she will be indulgent.’

 She bites her lip, tearful again, but nobody is around to hear her so there’s no point in not saying it. ‘She won’t be indulgent if you freeze to death, though, Aramis. She will be furious with you. And even more furious with me.’

 ‘Who will be furious?’

 She gasps, looking up through blurred tears at the approaching horse. ‘D’Artagnan? Oh God!’

 The smile drops off his face when he gets a good look at them. ‘What happened? We thought you’d got lost.’

 ‘Help me – we’ve got to get him indoors, d’Artagnan – he went through the ice, he’s so _cold_.’

 ‘Aramis?’ he asks, as if recognising the bundle of cloak beside her for the first time.

 ‘It’s been too long already,’ Constance says sharply, because he doesn’t look anywhere near her level of panic yet.

 He blinks at her, then nods, pulling up alongside Aramis’ horse, he manoeuvres himself neatly into the saddle behind Aramis and leans forward over him. ‘Aramis?’

No response; d’Artagnan lifts his head and gets a look at his white face and the frost that’s formed on his moustache. ‘My God…’ he breathes.

 ‘Go!’ Constance yells at him. ‘Go _now_ , I’ll follow you!’

 He nods at her once and then digs his heels in and takes off at a gallop. Constance gathers up the reins to his abandoned horse and follows at a fast trot, heart in her mouth the whole way.

 She rides into the Garrison and ignores the rude recruit who demands to know what her business is, leaving the horses in the middle of the yard and striding into the barracks.

 She runs smack into Athos in the corridor, and he swears, scrambling to catch the pitcher he is carrying before it falls.

 ‘Constance! Are you-?’

 ‘Is he alright? They’re back?’

 ‘He’s – he lives, did you -?’

 She staggers back and leans against the wall, gasping. ‘I couldn’t think what to do. I – he was so cold.’

 Athos manages a thin smile. ‘We’ll get him warmed up now.’ He toasts her with the pitcher. ‘You did well.’

 

-/-

 

Aramis comes to with a shudder some hours later, cocooned in what feels like every blanket in the barracks on a bed dragged as close to the fire as is possible without singeing him. There are warm water skins laid over his feet, and another resting on his hands where they’re folded on his chest. His muscles are vicious with aches from shivering, and all his skin is prickling uncomfortably from the extremes of temperature, but he does know enough to know that, painful as it is, it’s a good sign. It means his body’s coming alive again, not completely numbed out by the cold.

 When he cracks his eyes open the first thing he sees is that he’s in the large common room rather than his own chamber – the fire is much better here, after all. Someone is snoring fit to bring the building down, and he knows that it’s Porthos. In front of him, Athos is sitting on the floor, propped against a wall, sleeping uncomfortably with his head lolling forwards. D’Artagnan is slumped on the bench, and Constance is lying full length beside him with her head in his lap. All of them look exhausted.

‘Back with us?’ says a wry voice, and he cranes his neck to see the doorway, where the Captain is leaning against the door jam, inscrutable as ever.

 ‘Yes sir,’ he croaks, startled by how feeble his voice is.

 ‘They worked hard to save your life,’ Treville says softly, and Aramis feels unaccountably guilty. The captain’s face gives away nothing, so he just waits, too tired to do anything else. ‘We’ve learned something from you about doctoring, over the years.’

 Aramis manages a nod and half a wan smile.

 ‘Aramis?’

 He clears his throat and murmurs ‘Yes, Captain?’

‘We still prefer it when you do the doctoring. Don’t make a habit of this.’

He would salute, but it’s not a good idea just now.


End file.
